


A Boy, New York & Living

by zeitgeistic (faire_weather)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror, Bar, Cigarettes, Costume Kink, Crossdressing, Dramedy, Dry Humor, Gay Bar, Halloween, M/M, Muggle Lifestyle, Muggles, New York City, Taxi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-11-12
Updated: 2006-11-12
Packaged: 2017-10-17 14:49:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/178004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faire_weather/pseuds/zeitgeistic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>New York has done nothing at all for Harry's skin. Inspired by Simon and Garfunkel, the New York Giants, Halloween and dry-humorists.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Boy, New York & Living

**Author's Note:**

> I really, really liked writing this fic and I think it had some potential, but the ending needs to be re-worked. It was written for emiime in hpslashnotsmut's 2006 Fall Exchange. There's cross-dressing at the end, which, I admit, should probably be removed as it comes out of no where. When I was writing it, the cross-dressing had a purpose, but I seemed to have forgotten to build that up. So it just sort of comes at you. If you can over look that, you might like it.
> 
> Prompt: Humor, misunderstandings, snarky/witty banter, happy/hopeful ending.

**ONE – A Boy**

Ten years was nothing.

It was the eight in between the first one and the new one that were troublesome, Harry thought. The first one—well, during the first one, he was so lost and ambivalent about everything that he didn't even notice it had even passed at all until the three-hundred and sixty-fifth day. It had been a leap year.

Nine years after that, Harry was sitting on a leather bar stool with cracks in the seat drinking a beer—cold—smoking a cigarette—wet—and missing England because New York had done nothing at all for his skin. He counted every day with the tiny creases that had started showing up around his mouth about five years ago when he smiled. Since then, he limited his smiling to once a day—in the morning, in his mirror, to count the days—and that was it.

He was a proactive sort of person.

Harvey, who had served Harry drinks every day since he stepped off the plane at JFK, started to pick up a slight British tint to his accent about three years ago. That was probably due to Harry being one of his only speaking customers.

"How was your shift?" he was asking Harry now. 

Harry pulled out another cigarette and stared glumly out of the dingy window. It was raining, and his pack had gotten wet on the walk over. He held his lighter under the cigarette briefly to dry it off and answered, "Yeah, it was alright. I got this cat from LA today. Said he wanted to go somewhere with a nice view, so I took him to the Guggenheim."

Harvey laughed and started polishing a snifter. "Probably has the best view in all of New York."

"I really liked that Camille Pissarro landscape from 1867," Harry admitted absently.

Harvey hummed thoughtfully. "The one with the cottage? My wife's rather fond of that one too." He set the glass down and picked up a new one. "Decent tips today?"

Harry shrugged. "Not bad." 

For a taxi driver in New York, he did alright. It wasn't as though he  _needed_  to work, but during his second year in the city, he had realized that he liked listening to people talk more than he liked talking himself and so had picked up a job where all he ever did was that. 

The exchange rate from wizarding to muggle money was so outrageously fantastic that Harry once wondered why more wizards didn't live in the muggle world. One week of Auror salary could buy a brand new car—but then he decided that he didn't really care one way or another. Comparatively, the weekly salary for a taxi driver would barely cover a set of Hogwart's textbooks for one year.

Harry drained his glass and put some cash on the counter. "Thanks, Harvey," he said as he was getting up. 

Harvey smiled at him and Harry left.

-x-

It happened when he was walking home. It wasn't anything spectacular or overtly obvious, but he had trained in that sort of thing during the war: he recognized little things. And after ten years speaking very little and smiling even less, Harry's head was clear enough to notice it. 

Even the pounding of the rain couldn't mask it. It was a fatal mistake, really. Harry had been followed every day since he arrived in New York, but never had his attendant made such an obvious blunder. Before—well, before Harry had always studiously ignored it, but this time it was just too obvious.

 _People are so complacent_ , he thought.

He didn't turn or pause or speed up or do anything at all to let on that he knew—because that could've been suicide in a different world—but he kept walking, wrapped his scarf tighter around his neck and began whistling an old Simon and Garfunkel song about a boy, New York and living. He thought it was fitting, but he doubted his stalker would recognize it.

Three blocks later, he was still being followed, but he could see his apartment from there and it was more amusing than anything else. 

The entry hall light was on in his third floor apartment as it always was when he returned home, even though he always turned every light off before leaving. Harry pulled out his keys, unlocked the door and went inside—without locking it back, just because he had always been a fan of the effects of temptation on humankind.

-x-

At midnight, Harry woke up. He didn’t open his eyes, move or alter his breathing, but he woke up just the same. The clock beside his bed said one a.m., but that clock had been wrong since Daylight Savings Time.

"Ten years," he said and his voice betrayed none of the usual sleepiness one might have after immediately waking up. There was no response and no sound of movement.

"Ten years," Harry said again and this time he rolled over onto his stomach, buried his head under his pillow and sighed. "It's been ten years, and yet…you still follow me." There was a heavy silence, and Harry realized something: "You didn't know I knew."

There was, of course, no answer.

"I don't even do magic anymore," Harry continued philosophically—he was often philosophical at that time of the morning. "I mean," he tried to shrug, "I've got the wards on the apartment, but I never set them, and I carry my wand, but I haven't used it since the Giants' last game of 2005."

"The baseball team or the American football team?" someone asked.

Harry scoffed. "Who the fuck gives a shit about baseball? The _football_  team, of course."

"But they lost in the playoffs."

"I never said I was a fan of the Giants," Harry answered. He rolled over onto his back and stared at the ceiling. "So you've been following me for ten years," he mused. "I never did figure out why the Ministry picked you to do it."

"Aurors sometimes get assigned to these types of things," was the sarcastic reply.

Harry turned to look at his visitor. "An Auror, huh? I never would have guessed it. Why did you accept the assignment?" For having been woken in the middle of the night by someone in his bedroom, Harry was in a rather decent mood.

"The pay was good," someone said.

Harry hummed noncommittally. "And yet, the distinction must be non-existent."

"It was."

"That's not like the boy I used to know," Harry chided. "The boy I used to know would've only done it if there were possibility for distinction and prominence."

Finally, there was movement. "Red herrings."

"All of it?" Harry asked, slightly amused.

"Most of it," someone confirmed.

Harry snorted. "What do they expect me to do after all these years? Start a cult? Why do they even still pay you to follow me around?"

There was no answer. 

Harry said, "Just sod off, Percy," and went back to sleep.

  
-

  
**TWO – New York**

New York wasn't so bad in the autumn, but it still wasn't England. Once a year for the past ten years, Harry would wake up one autumn day and think to himself as he was brushing his teeth,  _'What the fuck was I thinking, coming to New York?'_  and then he would spit, rinse, and go about his day without ever coming up with any sort of conclusive answer.

Today was one of those days. Harry stood in front of his sink, spat, rinsed and smiled to see if there were any new lines around his mouth. There weren't, and that pleased him, but not enough to smile again. "What the fuck was I thinking, coming to New York?" he asked his reflection. The mirror, as it happens, was not magical, and thus didn't answer him back.

Harry frowned. He looked tired.

"Coffee it is, then," he said to himself.

Mysteriously—or not, depending on circumstances—there was already coffee brewing when Harry made it to his kitchen. He didn't have an automatic-start coffee machine; he just had a stalker that had been brewing his coffee for him every morning for ten years. 

Other people would have thought themselves crazy.

"Thanks," Harry said to the empty room. He didn't know where Percy was, but he was always nearby, and after being caught the night before, Harry suspected he would be even closer than usual.

The paper was waiting for him on the table, already opened to the sports section. American Quidditch teams were rubbish, and since the WWN didn't pick up in New York, Harry had been forced to find a new vice. That it turned out to be muggle American football was both shaming and refreshing.

He noted with pleasure that the Giants were getting off to a bad start this season, and around ten, finally left his apartment for work.

His tab at the bakery had been 'taken care of' which had never happened before and which Harry suspected was some attempt at an apology of sorts. What Harry found truly ironic was why Percy Weasley would apologize for stalking him for ten years when he never made much of an effort to conceal himself and when he had never apologized before. 

Percy had never been an apology-type person.

Harry ate two bagels that morning since he wasn't paying, and started his shift at eleven—two hours later than he should have. It was going to be a lovely day in New York City. He could feel it.

-x-

His first customer of the day was a buxom twenty-something Scandinavian woman with white-blonde hair and bright red lips. She opened the door to the taxi, slid in, letting her skirt slide up her thighs, and said:

"I've come all the way from Norway to see the world's largest cathedral. My family is very religious and I want to find religion to please them. Will you take me to find religion?" She was, obviously, talking about the Cathedral of St. John the Divine on 112th and Amsterdam. 

Harry looked at her in the rear view mirror. "Of course," he said. She beamed back at him, and he dropped her off, twenty minutes later, at the New York Stock Exchange because, he thought anyway, more people found religion there than at any cathedral.

The day slid by in the same fashion—people getting in Harry's cab, and Harry taking them wherever he felt like—until seven, at which time Harry usually quit for the day, even though his shift never ended until nine. 

There was a little bodega with a deli two blocks up the street from Harry's apartment, and he always walked there because, really, he hated driving. The woman who owned the place was Jewish and about five-hundred years old, but she was always nice to him, even when he bought bacon.

The exciting thing, though, was that it was the first of October, and Mrs. Cohen—as was her name—had just stocked the pumpkins. New Yorkers often didn't bother with pumpkins, but Harry wasn't really a New Yorker. He bought seven.

"A pack of cigarettes and a ham and bacon sandwich," Harry said at the register, just to be a nuisance. Mrs. Cohen frowned at him as she rang it up.

"Harry, dear," she said, "Why don't you try a turkey sandwich today?"

"I don't like turkey," Harry responded evenly.

"We have chicken," Mrs. Cohen offered hopefully.

Harry shrugged. "I've been craving pork all day." They stared at each other for several long seconds—Mrs. Cohen daring Harry to buy a ham and bacon sandwich and Harry daring her to not stock them anymore—when Harry added blandly, "And a bag of pork rinds. Please."

Mrs. Cohen grumbled. "I'll have Michael deliver the pumpkins."

Michael Cohen was Mrs. Cohen's only son. He was about three hundred years old and wore a Yarmulke every day but Saturday. Harry stared at her dully.

"Thanks."

Outside, it was chilly and Harry wrapped himself up tighter in his wool car coat. Autumn in England was much nicer than autumn in New York. As he remembered, there were fewer assholes in Surrey, which didn't have much to do with the season, but which Harry reflected on occasionally nonetheless.

New York was a filthy place, just like every other city in the world. There was litter on the streets, smog in the air and beggars on every corner. Harry had never been a huge fan of pork, and tried to give the sandwich and the pork rinds to a vagabond a block from his apartment, but, as it happens, the vagabond was Jewish and kindly refused the offer. 

Harry walked home to his apartment with his hands in his pocket and a red and gold scarf around his neck and thought to himself,  _'I fucking hate New York.'_

-x-

The pumpkins arrived at Harry's apartment an hour later, and Harry perched himself on the stoop of his building with a plastic garbage bag, a magic marker and a paring knife.

He had never carved a single pumpkin in his entire life.

He had, also, never had a bit of artistic talent.

Accordingly, it was not surprising that he fucked up the first one, and his hand in the process. Paring knives, he thought as he began on the second, were not made for carving gourds. He didn't feel like going back upstairs to get a better knife, though.

On the third pumpkin, he had been inspired by Edgar Allen Poe, but the raven began to look more like Snape with every cut, and Harry ran with it. When he was finished, he put a neon green candle inside, as a tribute to a fallen…person, and smirked at his own cleverness.

And Snape could very well take that to the bank. Or not, as he was dead.

Mrs. Peterson came home with her four children when he was on the seventh pumpkin and cursed at him for making such a mess in front of their building, so he packed everything up, lit all the pumpkins, and decided he was due for a night out. His hands were raw and bleeding, but he hadn't had a drink all day or a lay all month.

It was a shame, then, that Percy chose that moment to reveal himself for the first time since he'd been caught the night before. Harry was just lighting the last of the candles when the red-haired man stepped around the corner, hands in his pockets, but looking quite comfortable in his surroundings.

Harry looked back at him over his shoulder, noting that Percy still wore the same horn-rimmed glasses of old, and nodded. "Lovely weather," he said.

Percy stared at the jack-o-lanterns with disinterest as he responded: "Decent enough. England would've been better."

Harry agreed. What the hell was he still doing in New York? "So go there," he shrugged. He stood up fully and turned to face Percy. Though he knew that Percy had been following him for the past decade, this was the first time he had actually been close enough to get a good look at him in all that time.

He didn't look half-bad. Of course, Harry had never had a penchant for red-heads, but that could have been due to the fact that his best friend had been one. Had, of course, being the key word. Harry didn't like to think much on the war, so he didn't.

"I was assigned to your case during the war," Percy said flatly. He reached up and pushed his glasses up his nose a bit, reminding Harry of himself before he had invested in a better pair. "See—look," he said and pulled a well-worn and folded piece of parchment from his pocket.

Harry accepted it warily. It was written in code, mostly, but he had learned the same code during the war when—well, he understood it at any rate.  _Auror second class Percival Weasley: Assignment Watch-Dog to commence at four-hundred hours. One hundred percent coverage at all times until ordered otherwise._  It was dated, Harry saw, 31 October, 1996. 

"I have respect for my duties," Percy continued.

Harry nearly smiled. He clenched his fists instead. "Now  _that_  I am not surprised to hear."

Percy frowned at him. "Why did you come here?" he asked. He cast a disdainful look around himself, noting the trash in the streets and the graffiti on the buildings.

Harry snorted. "Ten years and you're just now complaining about having to follow me all the way across the pond?"

"Believe me;" Percy said firmly, "not a day has gone by that I did not hate this assignment."

"I don't doubt that," Harry agreed. His eyes followed the path Percy's had recently taken. "I hate this place," he said fondly. He hated it so much, in fact, that he almost liked it. Kind of like how he felt about being stalked by a Ministry official.

"So let's go home then," Percy suggested boldly. For the first time in ten years, he looked a little awkward as he said that.

Harry looked at him sharply. "'Let's'? Let's, as in 'us' or 'we'?"

Percy shrugged elegantly. "I was assigned to you," he repeated.

That, frankly, annoyed Harry a little bit. Percy obviously detested him just as much as he had when he was in fourth year, and yet, he had remained on this assignment for ten years. Harry took offence to being the sole reason for Percy's bitterness. He could have asked for reassignment long ago and many times over.

Harry had been delayed long enough. He needed to get laid now more than ever. "Tough luck," he said and turned away from Percy, walking up the street with his fists still clenched in his pocket and humming that song again. He didn't even bother to put away the paring knife.

-x-

Harry arrived at Harvey's bar around nine-thirty that night with his hands bandaged and a cocky smirk on his face. Now that he was away from Percy, he was starting to feel a bit better.

"Harry," Harvey nodded as Harry took his usual stool at the bar. Harry nodded back to him and ordered a beer. He still—even after ten years—liked his beer better at room temperature and so let it sit for a while before he drank any of it. 

Twenty minutes later, Harvey couldn't hold back anymore. "What the hell happened to your hands, man?"

Harry dipped his bandaged finger in his beer and deemed it decent enough to drink. "I carved some pumpkins," he said, swallowing.

Harvey pulled a random glass from the rack overhead and began polishing it with a rag. "Pumpkins?" he asked.

Harry nodded. "Yeah—with a paring knife."

"What the fuck for?" Harvey asked. He was scandalized. New Yorkers just didn’t do that kind of thing.

Harry shrugged. "I was in a festive mood today."

Humming, Harvey replaced the glass and grabbed another. He began polishing again with a thoughtful look on his face. "You going to the Greenwich Village Parade this year?" –New Yorkers didn't carve pumpkins, but they  _did_  dress up like fools and get smashed in the streets several times a year.

"I hadn't planned on it," Harry admitted slowly.

Harvey gave him the eye—which was really just his head cocked to the side and one eye squinted—and set down the glass. "You might want to," the barkeep said. "I'm going, so the bar will be closed for the night."

In his head, Harry said  _'Damn it'_ very loudly. He wasn't going to find a decent lay here anyway. Out loud, he said, "I need to get home," but that wasn't where he was going at all.

Harvey watched him until he got to the door, and then yelled, very loudly, "You'll need a costume, Harry! There's a shop two streets over that sells them: you look like you'd be a good wizard!"

Harry paused for only a second before continuing out the door. He was so upset about the parade that he gave Percy, who was, of course, following him, the finger, without looking back.

-x-

Harry stopped at the first gay club he came to. It was brightly lit with a line around the corner, but even at twenty-seven, Harry still got into clubs without a hassle. He hadn't visited this particular one in several months, but the doorman recognized him and waved him in immediately.

How Percy got in, Harry didn't care.

The only thing he cared about was getting a drink, a lay and a good night's sleep. That Percy still followed him even after having been caught was slightly entertaining, but that Harvey wouldn't be there to serve Harry a beer on the worst night of the year was just too much.

There was no way he would be able to sit at home on Halloween; if left to his own devices, he would go mad that night—and he certainly didn't want to go to any parade. He wanted to drink beer after beer until it was November so he wouldn't have to think about _that night_  again until the next year.

At the bar, Harry ordered a scotch, neat, and leaned back against the counter, scanning the crowd. He was getting too old for clubs, he thought. Maybe it was time to find someone he could put up with and settle down. There didn't even have to be love: he just wanted someone he wouldn't mind both screwing and living with. 

A tall, sinewy, sandy-haired man caught his eye, and Harry strutted over. He felt ridiculous, really: he hadn’t strutted in years, but it was a desperate time, and everyone knew what those called for. 

"What's your name?" Harry asked, even though he didn't particularly care. But sometimes, he got loud when he came, and it was always better to have a contingency plan.

The sandy-haired man smiled flirtatiously at him and answered, "Perry."

Harry nearly groaned. Instead, he lowered his eyelashes seductively and said cheekily, "Well, Perry, I'm Harry, that's Percy," he pointed over his shoulder, "and we barely have time for a very merry shagging at this rate. Shall we get on with it?"

Perry looked slightly frightened.

"Just you and me, I mean," Harry added, in case there was any confusion, which, he realized, there might have been.

"Three-ways aren't my thing," Perry said with relief.

"Lovely," Harry said, grabbing his hand. They weren't his either, especially if they involved red-heads. As he was leading Perry to the back room, Harry caught sight of Percy watching him with disapproval and sneered at him.

Right now, he didn't want to be followed. Right now, he just wanted to spend a bit of quality time with Perry. How would Percy like it if someone watched him every time he had a go? 

Did Percy even have go's?

-x-

"Do you want some company?" Percy asked thirty minutes later. Harry was still leaning against the wall in the back room of the club with a loopy look on his face, and Perry was already gone, which was also good. Harry would've hated having to shrug him off on his way home.

Harry blinked up at the red-head, watching the way Percy's glasses continually slipped down his nose. It was aggravating to watch: no wonder Hermione always fussed over his when he was in school. "I just had some," he answered, somewhat confused.

Percy pursed his lips and folded his arms tightly across his chest. "So I saw."

"Oh sod off, Percy," Harry lamented. "It's not like you've never had a shag before."

Percy shuffled his feet uncomfortably, and Harry laughed. Genuinely. Which was strange.

"You haven't? Oh my god, Percy," Harry chuckled. He was still a little dazed from getting off, but he had enough sense of mind to enjoy this moment. It was probably the best one he'd had all day. "Percy--," Harry snorted, "Percy, you're thirty-one years old."

"I've shagged," Percy said, somewhat defensively. "Just not…in a while. I was assigned to you in '96, as you will recall. Following someone around doesn't leave much time for relationships."

"Who said anything about relationships?" Harry asked, scandalized. 

"I don't approve of one-night stands," Percy admitted firmly.

"Ah," Harry said, nodding sagely. "Neither do I. Why waste a whole night on some bloke when you can be rid of him in an hour?"

"Potter," Percy said in exasperation. His arms had slid down to his sides and he was clenching his fists angrily. "Why do you do this? Why do you drive cabs and go to the same filthy bar every night? Why do you live in shambles when you could afford so much better? Why do you buy food and never eat it? And  _why_  are you still in New York City?"

Harry stood up straight, tucked himself back in his trousers and zipped them up, all the while staring at Percy bleakly. "Why do you not ask for reassignment?" he countered. "Why do you keep following me even though you hate it  _and_  me? Why do you watch me so closely? And  _why_  are you still in New York City?"

"There's nothing for me in England," Percy growled. Harry watched the way he bit his lip, trying to keep himself from making a scene—how could anyone make a scene in a place like this?—and tried not say something unfortunate.

Instead, he laughed caustically, which probably wasn't much better. "And there would be if I came?" he asked derisively. "What about your family? What about pretty Penelope and what about how much you love your job?"

"I did love my job," Percy said quietly.

"But you don't now," Harry said, raising his eyebrows. His green eyes were still shining in the afterglow behind his glasses. He pulled his jumper back over his head and gave Percy one last look. "That's the point, isn't it? You  _did_  love your job, but not anymore."

Percy watched him walk away until he couldn't see his messy black head in the crowd anymore, and then he leaned back against the dirty wall, sighing. He didn't care that his glasses were slipping down his face again, but he fucking hated New York.

Percy didn't follow Harry home that night.

  
\--

  
**THREE – And Living**

Two weeks later, Harry was bored out of his mind.

It was nearing the end of October now, and Halloween was closing in on him like four white walls. He just knew he was going to go mad: he had always had Harvey's bar to keep him occupied before, and, failing that, he had Percy. And while Percy was never really 'there' in the years prior, he was still 'around' and that had always been enough to keep Harry from the edge of insanity.

Harry didn't go to Harvey's bar that night just to see if he could hold out. If he was going to be alone on the night his parents died and the night that—well, Harry didn't like to think about the war—but nevertheless, he needed to build up a tolerance for it, he thought.

He bought a bottle of scotch from Mrs. Cohen's bodega and sprawled out on the couch in his apartment, flipping through channels because it was a Sunday, the Giants were winning on ESPN, and he didn't think he could stomach it. Not without a stiff drink anyway.

On the ten o'clock news, Pretty Pricilla (formerly Percy Johnson of Newark), talked about her upcoming show—she, apparently, was the hottest new drag-queen in the metro area—and her benefit ride in the Greenwich Parade was the topic of the night. Harry stared, nonplussed and defeated, at her blood-red feather headpiece and extravagant gown and took a long drink of scotch straight from the bottle. He turned back to the Giants game.

"There's nothing to do in this fucking town," Harry muttered to himself several minutes later. He felt like he was the only person in the whole city. Muggles had gone to such great lengths to create entertainment, and yet, he had been bored nearly to tears for a fortnight.

He thought, maybe, he would pick up a few extra shifts that week. Perhaps that was what he should do Halloween night, but—no. No, Harry didn't want to do that at all. He didn't want to work on Halloween. 

It was too quiet, he decided. He was getting restless.

But it was always quiet: everything about Harry's life for the past decade had been quiet. He worked twenty or so hours a week, bought his groceries from Mrs. Cohen's shop, had a drink at Harvey's and got laid whenever the notion struck him. He hadn't had friends since England.

And Percy had never talked to him. Not until a couple of weeks ago, anyway. Percy didn't count anyway, and that was the point.

But what was he doing? What did Percy do when he wasn't following Harry? He had been doing it for ten years—surely he had a life other than that? Surely he had an office and a girlfriend or at least a group of blokes that he got smashed with occasionally? 

And where did Percy live, anyway?

He sure as hell didn't sleep with Harry—that Harry could remember anyway. Harry snarled at the empty room. Percy probably made loads of cash from all of his stalking. Harry's mere  _existence_  had probably funded hundreds of petty little projects for him. He sipped heavily from the bottle of scotch.

The Giants scored and suddenly, Harry wanted to do nothing more than find Percy and punch him right in the gob. What right had he to follow Harry around all that time? How had the Ministry allowed that—and furthermore, how had they managed to allocate enough funds to put Percy fucking Weasley up in inner-city New York for an entire decade just to baby-sit him?

"Fuck the Ministry," Harry growled as he stumbled to his feet. It was, in truth, one of the admittedly many reasons why he had chosen to leave England in the first place. He knew, of course, the entire time that they had had him followed, but never before had it caused such him such anger.  
 _  
"The benefit ride is for an excellent cause," Pricilla said, smiling so widely that her white teeth gleamed from the set lights. "We're here to show that homosexuals, bisexuals and transsexuals are here to stay—and that we look fabulous in gala garb, of course."_

"And fuck you too, Pretty Pricilla," Harry added gruffly. Pricilla smiled again and he threw the remote control across the room where it smashed against the wainscoting. He frowned, knowing he would have to have it repaired or he wouldn't get his security deposit back when his lease was up.

Abruptly, there was a loud crash in the street below and Harry rushed over to his window. He slipped his fingers through the blinds and stared down, but he couldn't see anything at all.

"Very mature, Percy," Harry growled against the window. Everything was quiet. Harry huffed loudly, his breath ghosting across the glass, and cursed Percy for finding levity in the most asinine things when he could find it in nothing before. There was absolutely no reason for him to leave Harry alone for a fortnight only to try to scare him just when he thought he was finally rid of the obnoxious red-head.

Then there was another, smaller, crash and Harry removed himself from the window so quickly that the blinds screeched. "I'm not going to play your Ministry games, Percy Weasley," Harry said as he was grabbing his coat. He didn't even bother to turn off the television as he rushed out of his apartment.

_"That was Pretty Pricilla, formerly Percy Johnson of Newark, New Jersey, here to invite each and every one of you to the Greenwich Parade next Saturday."_

Harry rushed down all three flights of stairs and stumbled out of his apartment building, still pulling his right arm through his sleeve. The night air hit him like a freight train, stopping him dead in his tracks. 

No one was there.

Harry skipped down the steps, out into the empty street, and spun around. "Percy!" he yelled. His voice echoed back to him and he realized that this was probably the first time he had noticed New York ever being so quiet. He shoved his hands in his pocket and jogged a few feet up the street, the evidence of his heavy breathing forming in the air in front of him.

"Weasley!" Harry shouted. "Weasley, where the fuck are you?"

In the background, blocks and worlds away all at the same time, tires screeched on pavement, but Harry was still alone in that city. His cheeks were reddening and his nose was burning from the cold.

Harry waited. 

"Percy?" he asked more quietly. He heard movement behind him and quickly turned back around, only to come face to face with seven slightly deteriorated, but brightly burning jack-o-lanterns. One of them glowed green, standing out even from the back, and Harry faltered because the other six were starting to look like BillCharlieFredGeorgeRonGinny with red-hair, red-skin, red-eyes, red-faces flushed from exhaustion, excitement, amusement, satisfaction,  _arousal_ , pleasure, pain—

The light came on in Mrs. Peterson's apartment and Harry _ran_.

-x-

The streets became rivers and the air pierced his lungs like thousands of tiny little juggernauts and his skin felt like it was freezing or on fire, but Harry ran. He had no idea where he was going, but he was going there anyway, and as his fingers curled into his palms, he sweated out the entire month of October. It vanished from his skin, but he could still feel it in his bones.

Somewhere through all of this, Little Italy blurred past, and then he was standing on Houston Street with his hands on his knees breathing as if he had never breathed before. Maybe he hadn't.

He looked up slowly, still gasping for breath and knowing that if he could've, he would've kept running until he got to England. Greenwich Village stretched out before him like an awkward herald to  _something_ —but he couldn't figure out what.

And he was cold now. He was shivering and trembling and heaving out every warm breath he had, replacing them with cold and smog and  _New York_. Harry curled himself into his coat and realized that he had never been further away from home than he was in that moment. He was the only person alive right then, but he didn't even feel like he was breathing.

"I want to go home," he said quietly. It sounded like a scream to his ears.

His hands made it into his pockets and he walked. He didn't know where he was going, but he never had. All Harry knew was that it was cold, it was October and he was by himself in a big city that felt nothing like home even after ten years.

Harry looked around, took in all of the extravagant Halloween decorations around the neighborhood and decided that he was tired. He was going home—no, he was going back to his apartment. The city was dead; there were no taxis so Harry walked.

-x-

Harry lived in a daze until Halloween.

He brewed his coffee every morning at six and didn't even grimace when he had to drink it black because he had forgotten to buy milk. His shopping lists had always been made for him before. He retrieved the morning paper from the steps of his building at six-thirty and had to skim the index on the front page to find the sports section.

He started his shift at eight—an hour early—because he forgot to get breakfast from the bakery, and he took every one of his customers to wherever they wanted to go because he was having trouble thinking of better places to take them. His tips sky-rocketed, but he had stopped drinking and stopped eating pork so he had nothing to spend them on.

He put them in a jar on top of his refrigerator instead, and stared at them every morning as the cash fell over the top. The Giants, according to the newspaper, were undefeated this season and he didn't care. Percy had still not returned.

Outside, his jack-o-lanterns were pulp on the front steps. Harry knew because he had to step over them on his way to work and because Mrs. Peterson bitched about it.

On the last day of October, Harry woke up at six and lay in his bed, staring at the ceiling, until eleven when he finally got up. His movements were sluggish as he made coffee and he didn't even bother with the newspaper or the sports page. On that day, he really didn't care how well the Giants were doing.

At one, his boss called him and asked him where the fuck he was and why the fuck he wasn't working. Harry hung up on him, found the half-empty bottle of scotch from the previous week and spent the afternoon telling himself that something had to give, and when it did, he would be okay.

Mrs. Peterson came home from picking up her herd of children from school at four, knocked on his door and demanded that he clean up the rotting mass of pumpkin on the stoop. Harry slammed the door in her face, glanced at his watch and wondered where the day had gone.

It was seven before he realized that he hadn't eaten anything all day and that he might be a little bit hungry, though he wasn't certain. He grabbed his coat from the closet by the door and wandered down the stairs with his head down and his hands in his pocket. 

The street was alive with children in costumes; Harry hated it. He walked past Mrs. Cohen's bodega a block from his apartment without looking up, and then past Harvey's bar—which was indeed closed. Harry stared at the hand-written sign that said 'Closed for the Parade. Will reopen at 5:00 p.m. tomorrow' for several long minutes without thinking anything except 'What does it feel like to be alive?'

Two streets away, Harry's hands were cold, and he found an empty diner with black and orange streamers hanging from every surface and plastic pumpkins on the tables. 

"Happy Halloween!" the waitress said when he entered.

Harry looked up at her and waved absently. "Sure," he said. His voice was scratchy; it was the first word he had spoken all day.

She brought him a bowl of chili and an orange-frosted cupcake with a marzipan pumpkin on top, "On the house, dear," and he thanked her impassively. The chili was cold, like his hands, but he ate it anyway.

As he was getting ready to leave—maybe go back home and try to fall asleep—he reached into his pocket for some cash—it felt dead in his hands, not like the bright coins from England—and pulled out a worn piece of parchment.  
 _  
Auror second class Percival Weasley: Assignment Watch-Dog to commence at four-hundred hours. One hundred percent coverage at all times until ordered otherwise._

Harry inhaled quickly, slammed twenty dollars on the counter and ran out of the diner. He ran without even thinking about where he was going, but as Houston Street loomed in front of him, Harry cursed under his breath and ran harder.

His breath shimmered in front of his face. The parchment was still crumpled in his fist and the ink was probably starting to run from his sweaty hands, but Harry suddenly knew where he was going. He could feel it like he hadn't felt anything in ten years.

There was a tracking charm on the note. Of course, he thought, the Ministry never would have put a tracking charm on anything like that, but Percy Weasley  _would_  have. Percy Weasley was too cocky for his own good. Percy Weasley was a son of a bitch.

Harry sprinted through the East Village, shimmying and ducking through throngs of trick-or-treaters without even pausing to say a quick 'sorry'. He could hear the parade charging through loudly a few blocks away like a drum beat in his ears as he pulled his wand from his pocket, still running, and panted out the spell to activate the tracking charm.

He didn't give a fuck about the Muggle Secrecy laws.

Percy lived here, Harry realized. Ten years, and Percy had lived here—in Greenwich Village—the entire time. He ran up Sullivan Street, past West Third and West Fourth, and straight through Washington Park, feet crunching in the dead leaves and skin red and blistery.

At Waverly Street, when he had been running for ten straight blocks, he turned left without pausing and tore through the crowds of people coming for the parade. Percy's apartment building was in front of him. He knew it. He had driven by this place a hundred-thousand times during his routes, and never once had he given it a second thought, but the entire time—the entire time, Percy Weasley lived here.

On the third floor, like him, the tracking charm was telling him. 

He hadn't used magic in years, and yet, it felt like only yesterday when he spelled the door open and jogged up the stairs. Apartment 3-A felt just like Percy.

Harry burst through the door as if it weren't even there and stopped dead in his tracks. This was where Percy lived. This—empty, immaculate upper-class apartment with cream walls and leather furniture, a roll-top desk and brass candlesticks on the dining room table. 

He wandered around, staring reverently at frame photos—both wizard and muggle—on the walls, the neat stacks of  _Architectural Digest_  on the coffee table and the fact that Percy's refrigerator had more than condiments in it.

The bedroom was decorated finely, and the bed was an actual bed and not just a mattress on the floor like at Harry's apartment, but it was in the study that Harry stopped breathing again.

The room was disastrous, but it was the haphazardly piled papers and photos tacked to the walls that frightened Harry the most. It was pictures of him—everywhere—and many of them included various tricks and one-night-stands that he had picked up over the years. Harry realized he could remember every one of their names, even though, at the time, he had not given much thought at all to them.

He wondered if they remembered  _his_  name, and it was a haunting thought because they probably didn't; they probably never even learned his name, or if they did, forgot it the next day as if he had never been alive, much less in their bed.

But even in all of the mess, Harry found Percy's system—Percy always had a system. The photos were tacked to the walls, organized by hair color and cross-referenced by eye color. He had never liked red-heads, and yet, an entire wall was covered in them: red-heads—with blue eyes—that he had, at one time or another, fucked.

Harry seethed. 

He had not wanted to be reminded of that-him-them on this day. 

What right did Percy have—Auror or not—to take such a devout interest in Harry's life? What right did Percy have to remind Harry of  _him_? Was Percy so horrible that he kept a record of every man that Harry fucked who looked kind-of-sort-of like his dead little brother? Was he trying to prove a point?

His fingers curled tightly against his palms, fingernails digging into his skin, and he  _breathed_. This was what it was like to be alive, he remembered: this burning, raging, aching fury from being betrayed. How many of these pictures were doubles in Ministry files? How many of Harry's lovers had made front-page news back in England?

The parchment crinkled in his hand, sending a sharp surge of magic through his veins and Harry knew exactly where Percy was. And if he knew where Percy was, he decided that the best way to spend this ghastly night would be to show Percy what it was like to be betrayed thousands of miles away from home.

Harry was so angry that his own magic crackled and sparked on his skin. Harvey's words from earlier that month filtered through his thoughts, and he ran his fingertips over his clothes, watched detachedly as they changed, and slammed the door on his way out.

-x-

New Yorkers and tourists alike were screaming. 

Harry didn't feel like either. He walked slowly, disconnectedly, down Waverly Street; not caring when running children jostled him. He felt focused and alive—even in this trashy transfigured costume.

On the corner of Sixth Street, the crumpled parchment fell from his hands, and he didn't bother to pick it up again. He stood there, feeling like a pretty whore in red feathers and stilettos with make-up charmed gaudily onto his skin. Pretty Pricilla would be so proud.

"This one's for you, Percy Johnson from Newark, New Jersey," Harry said. His voice came out breathy and low like a vampress, and he couldn't have been more pleased with himself than he was at that moment. Nothing felt good like revenge.

He was a saint right then—a martyr—returned to earth prepared to shatter the wicked, and he would smite Percy Weasley so fiercely that no form of absolution would ever lessen the bruising. And he could take that back to his fucking Ministry.

Harry stepped forward into the crowd, only hearing the screaming and cheering as a quiet buzzing in the background, and singled in on Percy. He was in all black, standing with his back to Harry slightly apart from the rest of the crowd, and his hair was like the fire in Harry's mind.

"Hello, hello," Harry whispered, though it wouldn't have mattered even if he had screamed. Percy was not paying attention to anything. It was as if people rushed past and Percy was the one motionless figure among them.

The blood red stilettos on his feet tapped against the pavement as he slithered forward. Percy turned slightly just as Harry wrapped his fingers around his neck and spun him fully around.

"Percy," Harry breathed seductively.

Percy's mouth fell open and Harry noticed that his canine teeth had been charmed longer—a delightfully tactless tribute to a brother who—

"Harry." His skin looked even paler than usual. The glasses were gone. Harry ignored the cold pressing against his skin and bared his teeth, jerking Percy from the crowd. "Potter!" Percy yelped, struggling not to fall.

"Fuck you," Harry hissed, slamming Percy against the nearest building. In the background where it was dark and cold, Muggles cheered the parade and caught the candy flying at their heads. "Fuck you, Percy Weasley," Harry repeated. 

And then he kissed him. Hard. Just hoping that some wizard would be around to get a picture of it. He pressed his hips into Percy's and squeezed his hands around his neck, and did his very best to smother Percy with his mouth repeating 'fuck you' over and over in his head. 

His fingers were bunched in the black high-neck collar around Percy's neck and when he pulled away, his nose was only breaths away from Percy's. He fancied that he could smell the shock and fear radiating from the red-head. 

"Do you like that?" Harry asked. "Report that. File that with the Ministry. You get paid to take pictures of me doing that with other people, so why not you, eh? Maybe the newspaper will get pictures of us doing it now, and your family will see it and say, 'Look at our little Percy—he's made such a  _fucking_  name for himself.'" 

Harry paused and then shook Percy's shoulders. "Well, fuck you, Percy."

"For what?" Percy managed. He was panting from the kiss, looking disheveled and shocked.

Harry laughed wickedly. "How much do they pay you to follow me around?" he asked. "How much do you have to make to afford such a pretty little apartment? Do you make extra selling pictures of me and my lovers to the  _Daily Prophet_?"

"What are you talking about?" Percy gasped. In a detached sort of way, Harry noted that it was becoming difficult for Percy to breathe.

"I saw them," Harry said in a breath. "In your apartment. I found it, and I went in, and there they were: pictures of me everywhere. I figured you must've had  _some_ , being assigned to me, but there was no reason to take pictures of everyone I  _fucked_ too. Why does the Ministry still pay you to do this?" Harry begged.

Percy didn't answer. Harry jerked him forward and slammed him back against the wall. He noticed absently that his lips were stinging like they never had before from a kiss.

"Why?" Harry pleaded. The scotch was starting to go to his head. And he was cold.

"They don't," Percy mumbled.

"What?" Harry asked caustically. "They don't? I suppose you just do it for fun, then—just like to keep tabs on everyone who enters Harry Potter's bed?"

Percy hissed and started to struggle. "Fuck you, Potter!" he growled, pushing Harry away. Harry stumbled back, shocked and unbalanced in his shoes, wondering just how he had overlooked how much bigger Percy was than him. The overstated dress he was wearing snagged and he staggered, barely righting himself before he fell.

"I'm a causality of war, Potter," Percy growled as he straightened himself. His glasses were slipping down his nose and Harry wanted a cigarette. This was all too much. "I'm  _dead_ —according to the Ministry, at any rate."

Harry stared at him, nonplussed. 

"Don't you get it?" Percy asked frantically. He looked like he was close to pulling his hair out. His eyes darted frenetically around him as he fought for words, and then he said, hysterically, "They think I died in the war. They think that I was the one who took that curse for you—the one that R—"

"Don't say that!" Harry screamed. Behind him, the parade continued by. "Don't fucking say that!"

"But he's dead," Percy continued, "and not me, and what the fuck is wrong with a Ministry that declares one person dead and buries him in a grave marked with the wrong name without even checking first, but you wouldn't know that, would you, because you high-tailed it out of the country as soon as the last hex was fired!"

"Stop it!" Harry begged. "Please." He hated Halloween and New York and Weasleys and this stupid dress—what the fuck was he thinking, wearing it here—and—

"So you're wrong," Percy continued more quietly. He wasn't looking at Harry anymore. "I'm not being paid to follow you around. I haven't been since '97."

"Then why?" Harry asked.

Percy took a step forward and grabbed Harry's dress, pulling him forward. Suddenly, their positions were switched, and Harry found himself pressed against the cold brick wall of a building in little more than satin and feathers. He shivered, remembering that it was cold outside, and licked his lips nervously.

"Because I wanted to," Percy said. " _I_ did—not the Ministry or my family or the wizarding world, but me, and when did I ever get to do what I wanted to do?"

Harry breathed.

"And because I wanted you," Percy continued quietly, "and when did I ever get who I wanted?"

Then Harry was warm again because there was a body against his body and lips against his lips. Percy tasted like Halloween at Hogwarts: apple cider and chocolate and friends and everything before the war. He opened his mouth and kissed him back.

"That's why," Percy said. 

Harry shuddered. "It was strange," he said stiltedly, awkwardly, "…without you around, I mean."

Percy only looked at him. 

"I knew you were there every day for ten years, and then suddenly you weren't, and it felt strange. It felt like I was the only living person in the world."

"I was still there," Percy said. "I just didn't reveal myself."

Harry paused. "And you always did before?" he asked. "Even before I caught you?"

Percy shrugged.

"You did!" Harry exclaimed indignantly. "You let me see you!"

"I wanted you to know someone was there," Percy said, as if it were obvious.

Harry huffed. "You're too cocky," thinking that Percy was quite full of himself if he thought that Harry would actually care if  _he_  was the one who was there—but, as Harry thought about it, he realized Percy was right. He  _did_  like having him around.

Percy pressed his hips forward and grinned. "I know."

"Prat," Harry said, and then he smiled, not even caring if he got lines from it or not. His costume dress hitched up his leg and he leaned back against the wall, watching the parade charge by and waiting for Percy to kiss him again because if this was what he left England for, maybe New York wasn't so bad.

-x-

Fin.

-x-

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. The 'old song' from Simon and Garfunkel about 'a boy, New York and living' is "The Only Living Boy in New York."  
> 2\. 'That Camille Pissarro landscape from 1867' is: Camille Pissarro, The Hermitage at Pontoise, ca. 1867. Oil on canvas, 59 5/8 x 79 inches. Solomon R. Guggenheim Museum  
> 3\. I am very aware that it is not typical for a Jewish person to own a bodega, but I had a friend (who had a friend who had a cousin) who knew an old Jewish woman that owned a bodega. It was just something that came to me when I was writing. Obviously, I'm not Jewish and know little more than what I've written about the customs, etc. I hope I haven't made any grievous errors.


End file.
